


The Second Son and the Bastard's Sister

by anitaupstairs



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-06-08 15:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15246543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anitaupstairs/pseuds/anitaupstairs
Summary: When the Dragon Queen calls, Daario Naharis answers. Determined to win back her heart, he and the Second Sons go North to hold together the splintering Seven Kingdoms and pull the wayward Starks back into the fold. But the North remembers. Deeply changed by the war against the undead, the lands and the peoples look for new leadership.





	1. Chapter 1

By the time he looked back, he could blot out the great pyramid of Meereen with just his thumb. Closing one eye, his hand held up to the horizon, with a slight squint it was like it wasn’t there at all. On a clear day, it was as if the ship wasn’t moving at all, suspended like a piece of dust caught in a sunbeam, forever floating up only to fall back down on the next gentle wave. The world stretched on in all directions, different nameless, shapeless seas stretching black green to deepest blue until the met the sky.  


Daario Naharis unrolled the raven’s message once more. At first, he’d scoured it, looking  
for some hidden meaning, a code or a clue to what was going on across the Summer Sea. It was simple enough, despite the flowery language. It relieved the Second Sons of their guard of Meereen and offered the men a placement in the city’s permanent garrison if they wished to stay or in the ranks of the guards at King’s landing. It invited them home. To Westeros, although many of the men had never been west of Pentos, and it requested the presence of Daario Naharis at the wedding of Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. He could recite it backwards and forwards, standing on his head with his eyes closed. It was a long trip from Meeren to King’s Landing. A long time for a man to think. At first, he had thought she was inviting him back, to be her consort. The marriage of a queen, he supposed, was not one of love but of duty. Even in Meereen that had been clear with her first ill-fated intended. His place, in her bed and by her side, had been safe. He guessed that she must have come to her sense, realized that in the west as in the east, power meant privilege. No one would question who the queen brought into her bed, as long as there was a respectable king to go to banquets and wear the crown. He had even been excited to leave, to see her again. And then they started hearing the songs and the stories.  


He had sat, unable to act, as an army of dead things ravaged Westeros. He’d seen men, so scared their teeth chattered, even under the beating sun. People, those with means, fleeing Westeros had seen unbelievable things. If he hadn’t seen with his own eyes, the three dragons, he’d hardly believe it.  


But now it was over. The army was vanquished. Burnt to ash. They said it had been a fortnight of blackest night, so thick was the smoke that settled over Westeros. They said there’d been piles of bodies so high they looked like mountains. And then he’d received the raven, calling his men back like a pack of hounds. He rested his elbows on the ship's railing, his chin pressing into his palms. Maybe that’s what he was, a dog, returning to its master, eagerly awaiting the next command.  


GreyWorm met the boat at the docks. Daario knew it was him even before he could quite see him. Greyworm was an awkward statue, monochromatic even from a distance, standing with his feet spread a little too wide to look quite comfortable. Daario knew that if here were close enough to make out details, the man would have his hands clasped in front of him, still as a rock. He cracked a slight smile when Daario chose to forgo the ramp leading off the ship, instead vaulting down onto the ground.  


“sȳz naejot ūndegon ao lēkia” Greyworm held out a hand.

“ao tolī” Daario grabbed his hand pulling him into a hug.  


“You’ve gotten fat and lazy.” Greyworm stepped back, smiling slightly.  


“And you’ve gotten old.” Daario meant it as a joke, but Greyworm does indeed have a light dusting of white hairs.  


“This land, it tried quite hard to kill us.” He gestured at the land behind him. “It has been a lot of work and all for a very strange chair.”  


“And you only want me back after all the fun is over.” Daario clapped Greyworm on the back as they moved up the docks.  


“What have I missed? Tell me all about the noble prick who’s planned this wedding.”  


Greyworm slowed a little.  


“He is, not noble.” He wouldn’t quite meet Daario’s eyes.  


“Not noble? Not from one of the great gnarled family trees this country is so taken with.”  


“It is messy.” Greyworm stopped, looking at a point slightly above Daario’s shoulder.  


“He is very brave. A good ruler.”  


“You know him?”  


“He is my friend also.” Greyworm looked up at him, his face set, impassive. He sighed, putting his arm back around the sellsword as they resumed their walk.  


“You would like him, I think.”  


Daario stopped.  


“In another life perhaps.”  


Daario scoffed. “Noblemen and I, even messy ones, rarely get along.  


“This one will be our king. Perhaps you will have to get along with him.” Greyworm said.  


“Perhaps. And perhaps not.” Daario rested his hand on the pommel of the dagger in his belt, his hands fitting just above its pert breasts and around the slender waist. He had never been good with competition. Not in the pits, where he wanted to be the fastest and most bloodthirsty. Not in his work, where he’d sent two heads rolling from their necks all for a chance to meet the silver queen. And certainly not with women. He did not like being second best. He was his own worst enemy. Once he had what he wanted, he wasn’t very good at giving it up. If a woman preferred him to the man she was with, who was he to ‘bend the knee’. He’d had more than one broken nose from flirting with the wrong woman.  


He would meet this new husband of the queen, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t try to win back the dragon queen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! The response to this has been p r e t t y amazing! Thanks! I know this is a bit of an unusual pairing and I don't entirely know where it is going, but I have a couple of ideas I'm really excited about. 
> 
> xoxox  
> -anita
> 
> edit: I read some of your comments, and I totally agree - so this should be a bit more of a) what I intended and b) good old canon characterization

There was little about this trip for Daario to look forward to. One of them was the wide smile and soft hello of Missandei of Naath. She, like Greyworm, has changed very little. The dress was one long piece of fabric, hung through a gold ring, crossing over her breasts and leaving her stomach bare. Her hair was different, pulled into three little twists on each side. The hair at the back was pinned with thin gold rods, so it looked like there was a halo behind her. 

“This is new.” He touched her hair.

“The women in Kings Landing, they spend so much time on their hair.” She laughs lightly, reaching up to touch one of the twists. 

“I have my own lady’s maid. Did you know I am an advisor to the Queen. I serve on, they call it the tiny council, I think.” 

“That’s a silly name.” 

“It is, but I get a whole group of people to do my hair and wash my clothes. This is a free City, but there are two worlds here.”

“I’m afraid to say, there are two worlds everywhere.” Daario looked down at his shoes, the scuffed leather already plastered in the grime of one more city. 

He was glad Missandei hasn’t seem to change much. Everything else here was different. It wasn’t the city, he’d been to cities all around the world, and when you got right down to it, they were all the same. They all had a big building filled with important people preying on those who lived in it’s shadow. But Kings landing felt different, like it was emerging from some sort of hibernation. The reports sent back to Meereen after the fall of the Night King had described an incredible popularity for Daenerys. Personally, Daario thought the Dothraki worked by a sensible rule. They let the strong rule. In Meeren, the perfumed and pompous, seed shot into the right noble twat, claimed kingship. And here in Westeros there’d been a mad man, a drunk, two little boys and Cersei Lannister, who’d been willing to put her people to the knife to hold onto her crown. Of course the people loved Daenerys, how could they not. But then again, how could anyone not? 

He tucked Missandei’s arm into his own and listened as she told him about this noble house and that highborn family. 

“Many of them were decimated during the war.” Missandei had walked them out to a courtyard where a map of Westeros was painted on the ground. They walk out to the tiny Kings Landing, lettered in gold leaf on the floor. Daario lifted his hand, twirling Missandei so her skirts billowed out like rolling clouds. She laughed.

“So,” He pulled her in, “tell me about the Queen’s new consort.” 

“He is,” Missandei paused, “He is very brave.” 

“And bold and true, and handsome to boot?” Daario tried to keep his tone light, joking. 

“He is. He is from the north. They are quite different from the Southerners.” 

He did not like this, feeling like a little boy whose friends have all found a new playmate.

Greyworm rejoined them, his spear clasped in his left hand, his free right going to take Missandei’s arm. Their fingers intertwined and Greyworm looked down, smiling at her. 

“There will be a dinner. You can get the measure of him for yourself.” Greyworm’s face softened. “He is a good man, Daario Naharis. A better match than you.” 

“Aye. Finding a more kingly man than I is about as hard as finding a bare ass in a whore house.” 

Missandei laughed, and Greyworm looked disapproving. He waved them off, taking another turn around the painted courtyard. It was so strange, that this was technically where Daenerys belonged. Here in these castle walls. That this is what she fought for. It looked so ordinary. So unlike Daenerys herself. 

Daario Naharis was never a man accustomed to being ruled, or led, or ordered. He had done what he liked since he’d been freed and he had no 

intention of stopping now. Although common sense would argue he stay away, Daario Naharis would argue that now was the moment. Now was his time to show up this new man. He ducked out of sight, reemerging on the outside of one of the turrets, shimmying along the wall his nails digging into the little chinks brickwork. 

He made quick work of the tower. It had been so long ago that he had climbed a different building with two heads to win over the new queen of Meereen. But Daenerys had no other enemies for him to behead. She’d won. And so, he was left wondering, as he clambered above Kings Landing, what did she want him for, if not to be her partner?

She was sitting at a desk. He stopped in the window, looking in at her. He had kept a memory of her, sitting in bed, her hair all unbound and diffuse around her head, smiling at him. She could look so severe and he liked to remember her as she was to him. He dropped onto the floor, looking around. The ground was covered in a lush red rug. There were hangings on the walls and gilt on the posts of the canopy bed. Her head was bent. Her hair was pinned, falling in a thick central twist. 

“My lady.” His lips were so close he could have traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. 

She started, turning in her chair and rising as he dropped to one knee.” 

“You called and I came.” He smiled.

“Daario!” She bent down to pull him up as he stood and her chin glanced off his head. He winced. 

“My lady, they’ve made a warrior out of you yet.” He rubbed his head.

“This country has tried its best. Your journey?” She was looking up at him, waiting for his answer when he ducked his head, moving one hand behind her neck and kissing her. Her lips were warm and soft, and he bit lightly at her full lower lip. He felt her hands on his chest, pressing up against him. He leaned forward, moving his other hand lower on her back, and down over her hip to the slit in the side of her dress. She was pressing against him, making little noises. Daario, lost in the feel of her mouth, mistook her protests as moans of pleasure. He pulled her closer, running his tongue just under her top lip, pressing forward. He moved his hand down along her hips, feeling for the slit in her dress though which he’d seen her creamy thigh. Then she bit his him. He lept back. She straightened her skirts, her face cold.

“I have had one trusted advisor misunderstand the nature of our relationship.” Her face was flat, her violet eyes dark enough to be black.

“And I miss him every day. But do not think, Daario Naharis, that because you shared my bed once I have invited you here to share it again.” 

His mouth was slightly open. He closed it, bringing up a hand to rub his bitten lip. Daenerys pursed her lips, displeased. 

“I thought you two would meet at the feast, but, please meet my betrothed, Jon Snow of the House Targaryen.” 

Daario turned expecting the man to have Daenerys white hair and fair skin. He was indeed pale, but smaller than Daario expected, his dark hair neatly pulled back. He was wearing black, one of his thick eyebrows raised. He bowed his head at Daenerys, standing still in the doorway. Daario wondered how long he had been standing there. Jon’s eyes narrowed. Daario knew the look of a man imagining running him through with a sword. And Jon Snow had a sword, a great, wolf-headed thing that nearly touched the floor. 

“Your Grace, I trust I find you and our Meereenese friend well.” Jon came to stand next to the queen, raising her hand to her lips and kissing one of the snarling, dragon-headed rings.

“Jon.” Daenerys tilted her head, “We are well, far better with you here. I was just reminiscing about Ser Jorah Mormont.” 

“He was a good man.” Daario did not meet her eyes. 

“He was, and I have missed his advice and guidance, but” she paused, “I seem to have done well without it.” She smiled at Jon. 

“Well, I’ll take my leave.” Daario dropped into an exaggerated bow, “Your Grace, Your Grace.” He dipped lower, first before Daenerys then before Jon. He turned to go. 

“Daario.” 

He looked back. Daenerys let her shoulder drop a little, less the queen and more just a woman. 

“I am glad you’re here.” She stepped forward, clasping his hand. “Truly Daario, I am.” 

“My pleasure, your Grace.” He affected a second sweeping bow over their joined hands, “Your Grace.” 

Somewhere, in this castle, was Tyrion Lannister. Daario was going to find the little man and get rip-roaring drunk. 


	3. Chapter 3

  


“So that was the man who held Meereen.” Jon sat on the edge of the desk, looking across at Daenerys. 

“That it was.” Daenerys smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt. “He is not entirely as he seems.” 

“And how does he seem, my Queen?” Jon reached for her, resting his hand on her waist. 

“I would not want to misrepresent the nature of my relationship with him.” 

“I wouldn’t want that either.” Jon pulled her closer, biting lightly at the soft skin between her neck and her jaw. 

“So tell me, my queen, what is that nature of that relationship.” 

Daenerys let her head fall back as Jon kissed down her neck towards the rise of her breasts under the Westerosi dress. 

“Nothing.” She breathed, leaning into him. 

“That didn’t look like nothing to me my Lady.” He pulled back, running a finger across the top of of her dress, tracing down over the little v in the top of the dress. 

“Do you think I am just a green northern boy, my lady. That I don’t know what a man looks like when he wants to lay with a woman?” 

“I imagine he’d look quite a lot like you, Lord Snow?” 

“Aye, he would.” 

Daenerys took a step back, looking at Jon. “You are not my first man, Jon Snow, just as I am not your first woman. I cannot,” she paused, “I cannot change the past, but I was a different person. I did not know what I wanted.”

Jon sat up too, pulling away. “If certainly looked like you knew what you wanted.” 

“I am sorry.” She stepped forward, taking by the hand and pulling him after her, back towards the bed. 

“You are queen of the seven kingdoms, you don’t have to be sorry.” 

“But I am going to be your wife Jon Snow.” 

“I, ya are.” 

  
  


Daario Naharis stormed up the steps of the Hand’s tower. He knocked, pausing just long enough for Tyrion to call out before pushing the door open. The dwarf was sitting on a rough hewn stool, and the room before his was little more than rubble. The bed clothes had been rent in two and hung, like tattered ghosts, from the frame. The velvet seat cushions of the chairs had been gutted, straw and down bubbling out. 

“Daario Naharis,” Tyrion gave a little bow, wine sloshing dangerously, “you look hearty and hale. Must be all that Meereenese sun.” 

“And you look like shit.” Daario surveyed the room, “I thought the fighting didn’t make it this far.” 

“It didn’t.” 

Daario raised an eyebrow, looking around the destroyed room.

“I did this, drink?” Tyrion raised a bottle of something.

“Yes.” The sellsword dropped onto the ground next to the stool. 

“I take it you’ve met Jon Snow?” 

“That I have. Although I may not have made the best first impression.” 

“Is he what you expected?” Tyrion looked at him over the rim of the glass

“No, he isn’t.”

Tyrion hummed, taking another sip.

“It isn’t an arranged marriage, if that’s what you were hoping for.” 

“Why am I here?” 

“Never been much of a politician, have you.” Tyrion shimmed to the edge of the stool, dropping onto the ground. 

“I find what some men accomplish with words, I do just as well with steel.” Daario was remembering why he preferred Greyworm, although the unsullied was a far worse drinking partner.

“Perhaps that is why you’ve been called here.” Tyrion refilled their glasses. 

“But, as everyone has been so eager to share, I missed the war.” 

“Yes, the war is over. And the Queen took Meereen. And we both know how little those things mean.” 

Daario nodded.

“All this talk is gloomy, we should be celebrating. Have you ever been to a Westerosi wedding?” 

“I haven’t, though I doubt they been a Dothraki one.” Daario refilled his own glass.

“Far less bloody, I would guess, and with more dancing.” Tyrion shrugged, “If you’re the dancing sort.” 

“You don’t dance dwarf?” 

“Somehow, I never was quite able to master the footwork. My preferred activity is drinking.” Tyrion set his glass down, going over to look out of the windows. He turned back, looking at where Daario still sat in on the floor. 

“And you, sellsword, you dance I take it.” 

“I dabble.” 

Tyrion chuckled. “I don’t doubt you do.” 

A man with a wide, moon shaped face, fringed in dark hair appeared around the door. 

“My lord.” The moon said? 

“Podrik!” Tyrion grinned. 

“My lord.” The moon, apparently named Podrik, bowed first to Tyrion, then to Daario. 

“No need.” Daario crossed to the door, opening it and smiling at Podrik. 

“This is Daario Naharis.” Tyrion indicated Daario, “And this is Podrick Payne, my former squire, and loyal friend.”

Podrik blushed, bowing his head again in deference to Tyrion, “My lord.” 

“I take it Lady Brienne is here?” 

“She is My Lord, and the rest of the Northerners with her.” 

“Ah, I must take my leave then.” Tyrion nodded to Daario. “I shall see you at the feast. I do hope that isn’t what you will be wearing.” 

Daario smiled, “It’s either this or as the gods made me.” 

“Well, that should cause quite a stir.” 

Daario walked down with Tyrion and Podrik, noting how the squire slowed just a little to keep up with the dwarf as he descended the steps. It was well practiced, slow enough to accomplish the purpose but not too slow as to be humiliating. Payne Daario guessed, was far more than met the eye. 

He wandered around the castle, watching the bustling servants and footmen. He eventually found his room where he stopped to have a bath and have another cup of wine. 

He awoke later to someone knocking at the door. It was evening, the sun coming in long through the notched windows. A servant, dressed in a black vest with tiny Targaryen dragons on the buttons, nervously informed him the feast was about to start. Daario hurried after the nervous little man. 

The hall had been hung in red banners embroidered with silver dragons. Each table had a huge silver candelabra, the arms so long and thinly wrought the candles looked like they were floating over the table. Cascades of blood poppies, white flowers with red centers, dropped from archways and chair backs.

“You’re underdressed.” A man drawled. 

Daario looked to the table next to him. Two men sat at the end in relative seclusion, the blond one, who had spoken, raised his eyebrows, sneering. 

“Ah, leave the poor lad alone, probably thought these were the stables and stumbled into the great hall.” The dark haired one said. He turned to look up at Daario, reaching up to lay a hand on his back and asking, as if he were a simpleton, “are you lost lad?” He’d hardly finished speaking when his eyes widened. Daario pressed a little more firmly on the knife pressing into the other man’s armpit. Instead of dropping his hand the man smiled. Daario felt the sudden prick of a knife, pressing intimately against his thigh.

“Careful friend, you’ll be wanting to leave tonight with both your testicles I imagine.” 

“Ladies ladies, you’re both pretty. Sit down and lets have a drink.” The blond man had have risen from his seat, holding both hands out in a conciliatory gesture. Daario noticed with interest that one of his hands was made of gold. 

“I am Ser Jaime Lannister, and that man is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.” 

“Daario Naharis.” Daario withdrew his knife and sat down. He’d heard of Ser Jaime, the Kingslayer, but now did not seem like the right moment to bring it up. 

Daenerys was seated at the high table next to Jon. There was a fat maester, and beside him a pretty young woman with brown curls. Tyrion was there too, but, more interesting than the dwarf was the woman next to him. She must’ve been tall, sitting straight and still in her chair. Her hair was copper bright and unbraided, hanging loosely around her head. As he watched, she turned to Tyrion, lowering her head so he could speak, letting a curtain of red hair fall down around them. 

As the plates were cleared, the musicians struck up a lively pace and couples, like flies to a light, moved out onto the floor. Daario watched as Daenerys led Jon down from the dais. Her smile as Jon twirled her around the room nearly spit her face in two, her mouth open wide in pure glee. Daario watched as they traded partners, Jon taking a Dornish girl’s hand and Daenerys stopping to dance with a young boy in a find golden jacket. A flash of red caught his eye. Tyrion was dancing. The red hair of his pretty dinner companion flew out to the side as they jigged, free hands out before stopping, turning in a little circle, and switching hands. Tyrion was grinning. Daario looked at the woman. She was facing away from him. She was indeed tall, almost taller than Jon Snow. Nicely built too, Daario thought.

“Careful there lad, you’re drooling a little.”

Daario turned to look at the knight named Bronn who continued, nodding at the red haired woman, “The future King might not take kindly to you ogling his sister.” 

  



	4. Chapter 4

**  
**

Daario was deep in his cups by the time the guests started to depart. Jaimy and Bronn, plied with the promise of Meereenese date wine had explained that the redhead was Jon’s cousin, but raised as his sister. She had been married off to Tyrion, news that had temporarily distracted Daario’s visual pursuit of her around the hall. 

“And now, that little lady is Queen in the North.” Bronn raised his glass, quirking his head. Daario eventually lost interest preferring to listen to Jaimy and Bronn’s war stories and, occasionally, allow himself a glimpse of Daenerys. 

“You,” Daario slurred at Jaimy, sometime later, “you were a great swordsman.” He pointed, “you were one of my heroes when I was a lad.” 

“Good lord that makes me feel old.” Jaimy looked at him, taking him in. “I imagine you’d be quite the sparring partner.” 

“I don’t really spar.” Daario had never mastered the art of practicing a fight without the intent to hurt. 

“No, my Lord, we’re dealing with a hardened welp here. He doesn’t need the help of a pair of wastrels like us.” Bronn clapped Jaimy on the back. 

“I’m sorry Ser, I don’t spar but I would be honored to make an exception for the kingslayer.” 

“Thank god I still have some notoriety around here. That name shall follow my long past my grave.” 

“That is the point though, to be remembered, is it not?” Daario refilled his cup. 

“Perhaps.” Jaimy was looking past him, at someone Daario could not see. 

Before he could turn to look he felt a tap on his shoulder, turning to see Tyrion standing next to him.

“You might want to slow down your drinking, we’re to meet with the Queen tomorrow, and Varys loves a good early morning meeting.” 

  


Upstairs, the noise of the party behind them, Jon and Daenerys were alone. Jon pulled at the tiny buttons along the back of her dress, fumbling them open. 

“Ah, your hands are freezing.” 

“Care to warm them up for me, my lady?” Jon stopped, turning Daenerys around to kiss her, still fumbling with the buttons. 

“I’d almost say my sister is trying to protect your virtue from me, either that or frustrate me terribly.” Jon cursed trying to push the tiny pears through the seemingly even smaller holes. 

“Jon, don’t be rude after she made me this lovely dress.” She peered over her shoulder at Jon. “Is it common, for ladies to make clothes.” 

Jon thought about it, his mind warm and a little fuzzy with wine and ale. “Aye, my mother, or, rather lady Catelyn used to make little things, she and the girls would add embroidery or do finer work, but ladies maids and servants would repair clothes and a seamstress would do the fine dresses.” 

“Until I went to live with the Dothraki I did not have anything really of my own, even my own maids. There would always be the servants of our hosts, and gifts of fine dresses, but no one stayed, no one was allowed to get close. And when we would move, it would all be left behind.” 

Jon kissed her shoulder, the weight of the abalone at the top of the dress pulling it down to fall at her feet. Underneath she was naked, no small clothes, just her smooth, small breasts and the shock of silvery hair were her legs met. Jon turned her, kissing along her neck, lowering his head to kiss first between her breasts, and then one and the other, pausing to roll one of her nipples between thumb and forefinger, coaxing them to harden into points. He knelt, kissing down along her belly, then the crease along the inside of her thigh. He ran a hand between her legs, his fingertips just brushing her clit, making her gasp. He looked up at her, smiling. 

“My queen.” 

“I do remember your initial hesitance to bend the knee Ser.” 

“Had this been an incentive, I might have agreed sooner.” He ran his hand again, dipping between her lips, feeling her, warm and slick. He rubbed lightly, little circles around her clit that made her shake a little. 

“Jon.” She was running a hand through his hair, pulling a little with her urgency. 

He rocked back, looking up at her, still circling, pressing a little harder. “Yes, my Queen?” 

“Jon.” she said again, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer. Instead, he stood up, lifting her and walking to the bed. Even through his clothes, she felt hot, small, and his, burning from the inside like a fire herself. 

  


Tyrion had not been kidding. Through the windows, King’s Landing was still in darkness as Daario hurried along the cold flagstones. Tyrion, the eunuch, Snow, and Daenerys were already there. A giant woman, taller than most of the men, sat, her legs spread in her chair like a man, and standing next to her was the redhead and a tall man wearing furs, also with red hair. There were other faces too, noble families that Daario had never heard of. He thumbed the metal breast of the knife, tucked into his belt. It was a familiar gesture, something normal and solid in the very strange role he had fallen into. He sat next to Greyworm, watching the way Daenerys was looking at Snow. She was staring at him, smiling slightly. She reached up, ostensibly readjusting the large, golden dragon circling her neck, and her hand trailed down, almost brushing against her breast. Daario watched Snow blush, his face reddening under his beard. 

“Your Grace.” It was the redhead, still standing. 

“We are eager to return to the North. Meaning no disrespect, but there is still much work to be done there and I would like to return and attend to it.” 

“Of course, Lady Sansa, I shall endeavor to keep this brief.” 

“And why, your Grace, is this the Warden of the North?” An older man, dark-haired with flecks of grey, sitting farther down the table asked. “I understand the Starks are soon to be your kin, but truly, is Lady Sansa fit for this?” He turned from the queen to address Sansa directly, “Perhaps, my lady, you would consider a husband to help you?” 

“Perhaps, my lord. But I don’t seem to be able to keep a husband.” Sansa demured. A few men chuckled. Daario was nonplussed, was she suggesting killing someone? Had she already? 

Daenerys stood, “This is Daario Naharis, he has been a loyal friend of the crown and I have asked him here to once again request his service. We have been through a great upheaval, The North most of all.” Daenerys inclined her head, deferring to Sansa, “And so, The Golden Company and the Second Sons will journey north with Lady Sansa and her people, to aid in the reconstruction and resettlement of the Free Folk.” 

Daario stiffened. She had called him all this way to send him away again? She did not even have a fight for him. He was being sent away to build shelters for frozen Northmen, in a country far from his home while she ruled and made eyes at her blushing groom. He wanted to say something, but Tyrion was staring at him. The imp gave a tiny shake of his head. Daario bit his tongue. The lady Sansa did not. 

“Your Grace, the North is recovering, we do not need,” she trailed off, pursing her lips and looking at him for the first time, “we do not need assistance.” 

“I am well aware of the strength of the north, sister, but the Second Sons and Golden Company are not an insult, they are an offering of peace between the capital and the north. I know some of your people felt abandoned during the great war, we wish to mend that trust, to be, once again, a kingdom.” Daenerys sat down again, some of the Southern lords slapping their hands against the table in agreement. The man next to Sansa bent down, whispering in her ear. She licked her lips, which, he noticed, were surprisingly chapped. 

The lady Sansa was looking at the floor, her hands clasped together. Daenerys turned to Daario. 

“When will you ride out?” Daario opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the Lady Sansa. 

“I shall leave today.” 

“Sansa,” Jon hissed, “the wedding.” 

“Your Grace, I regret my hasty departure, but as the queen said, the North has felt abandoned and I have no great love for the capital.” 

“As you will.” Jon turned to Daario, “There you have it, you leave today.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Jon walked the lady Sansa back to her chambers.  


“Thank you for coming.”

“Jon.” Sansa stopped, turning to look at him. “I know that Septa Mordane would switch my shins for being so rude, you do not need to pretend I am not being a child.” She smiled a litte, “But I cannot be here.”

They started walking again, Sansa’s arm resting lightly on Jon’s.

“How is Winterfel?”

“It stands.” she sighed, “There are so many people to resettle. Tormund and the other Wildlings seem to be settling, but there are some growing pains.”

“What’s this?” Jon fingered the bands of grey fur around the collar and cuffs of her black bodice.”

“Squirrel, if you would believe it.”

“The Lady Sansa is wearing a squirrel fur coat?”

“That she is.” Sansa grinned, “We are making do your grace.”

“Aye, I know ye are.”

They walked along in silence, Jon nodding to courtiers and guests there for the wedding along the way back to Sansa’s rooms.

“Have you paid the Golden Company, or, come to think of it, the Second Sons?” Sansa poured Jon a glass of wine without asking, pouring a second for herself and settling on a green brocade couch.

“No, the Second Sons have an agreement with Daenereys.” He sipped. “The Golden Company is more complicated. After all Circe tried to use Tyrell gold to pay back the Iron Bank and the Golden Company.”

“But that gold was returned to the Tyrells in order to supply grain and crops, and as reparations for all that they lost.”

“Ay, the Iron Bank was paid in the scales, bones and horns of Viserion but the Golden Company would not agree to take dragon parts.”

“So they remain out of charity?” Sansa poured a second glass of wine. Jon was had had hardly any of his.

“Not at all, those who stay do with the promise of lands and wives.”

“Jon,” Sansa stood, pacing to the window, “you expect me to believe that mercenaries, what some would call the greatest mercenaries in the world, are interesting in giving it up to farm sheep and chase westerosi girls?”

Jon chuckled, “No, most returned, but there are a few officers, and the men that follow them, that agreed to our terms.”

“Hmm.” Sansa put her once again empty glass on a table.

“Tell me about Daario Naharis.”

Jon shook his head, “I don’t know anything about him. Only that he helped Daenerys and that they were close.”

“I expect you’ll be glad to see him go.”

“Ay, I will, though not with you.”

“You worry to much. After all, I have Briean and Tormund and Ghost.”

There was a knock at the door before Jon could protest that he wasn’t as much worried about physical danger from Daario Naharis.

“Come in.” Sansa, standing in the window, tall and imperious, made him think of Catlyn, when she called him in for a scolding. Tyrion waddled in, bowing to first Sansa and then Jon. Jon took his leave, watching Sansa pour two more cups of wine. She was Catlyn’s daughter, a true Stark to be true, but, he studied her face. It was blank, not the practiced icy seething of the Starks, unable to hide their feelings, Sansa’s face was truly just blank, the perfect noblewoman. He wondered, feeling a little guilty for even thinking it, if there were any similarities between Circe Lannister and his sister. He sincerely hoped not. 

“So, my dear, how are the children?” Tyrion seated himself on the couch Sansa had vacated, grinner at her as he accepted a cup of wine.  
Sansa laughed, sitting down opposite him. “To what do I owe the pleasure lord Tyrion?”

“It is good to see you in the capital, and to know you are well.” Tyrion smiled

“I am, if a little baffled by the queen’s suggestion.”

“It isn’t a suggestion my Lady, you would do well to remember, The Queen in intent on returning The North to heel.”

“We do not sow. You know the words, Lord Tyrion?”

“The Greyjoys, yes.”

“They were brought to heel you know, under King Robert you know.”

Tyrion studied her. “The North remembers, Lord Tyrion.” She walked him to the door, and his kissed her hand in parting. Her skin, he noticed, was as cold and pale as marble. 

Back in his chambers Tyrion called for a servant, making a note to get books for the Lady Sansa. She had requested the loan of several tomes on engineering from the library, as well as a personal request.

“What did you read?” she had asked, brushing crystals of sugar from a dried fig.

“What did I read when? I have read many books my Lady.”

“What did you read when you were growing up, what did you read to become like this?” She gestured at him.

“I had twisted legs, my lady, and a nasty little face. That is what made me like this.”

“Don’t be so think skinned Lannister, it doesn’t suit you.” she bit into the fig, the tough, leathered skin ripping.

“What did you read to become the way you are, to become a tactician?”

“The Lady wants to become more tactical?”

“The Lady wants to win, my lord. I have had nearly four husbands and I don’t intend to have another.”  
He made a list of books he thought she’d like, as well as ordering up a case of lemons.


End file.
